


Taking the Stares

by weakzen



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/M, Feelings, Fluff, Humor, Kissing, Pre-Relationship, Prompt Fill, Slow Romance, Teasing, Touching, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27116719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weakzen/pseuds/weakzen
Summary: The Detective uses the stairwell to her advantage for a kiss—or so she thinks.
Relationships: Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	Taking the Stares

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt fill, " _Kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference_."

Mason pushes the door open with his hip and leans against it, holding it open for me.

Waiting for me to pass. Waiting for me to head up first.

Like he's done every single time since Unit Bravo first rolled into town.

Back then, he did it with scowls. Folded arms. Heavy gazes dead ahead. Barks at me to hurry up too, if I took longer than a second—and I frequently did, strolling with a sly smirk and deliberate slowness, just to piss him off. But regardless of our bouts of mutual antagonism and his overall assholish demeanor, he still slammed those stairwell doors open for me and waited, always letting me head up in front of him.

Today, I run my hand over his stomach as I pass, stroking a squiggle across the thin fabric of his shirt, enjoying the dip of his inhale, and the way his abs tense with anticipation, and then the broad smile I leave on his face when my fingers depart.

I head up the stairs without looking back. The door to the basement slams shut behind us and Mason's footsteps soon join mine, echoing loudly against the concrete and corroding pipes.

It took me a while to realize why he held those doors. An embarrassingly long while. I thought he was trying to unnerve me at first. Take advantage of the terrain and isolation. Get me to walk in front of him so he could follow behind, directly in my blind spot, unseen and unheard through the echoing cacophony, discernible only by that piercing gaze and the smirk that dug into my backside and the way he used both to make the tension between my shoulderblades wind just a little bit tighter with every subsequent step climbed on those long ascents.

That was definitely part of his motivation back then, fucking with me, but I was too focused on that aspect to pay attention to the more obvious and glaring explanation for his actions. Which, is either a testament to my ability to fixate on something to the exclusion of everything else, or a total condemnation of my single-minded obliviousness, because Mason is _not_ exactly subtle.

Not with his words, when they come at all. Not with his actions, when he cares enough to try.

Not with those hard, roaming, and near tangible stares of his, either.

Truly, a master of visual undress and eye fucking across a room.

And of making sure he's always in position to blatantly ogle my ass while he does both.

A wide grin pulls at my lips and I whirl around suddenly before I crest the first landing, arms folded as I stand above him.

“You staring at my ass again, sunshine?”

My accusation echoes off the walls and, four steps down, he doesn't bother to pretend he wasn't. His eyes linger on my crotch for a moment, smirk slowly widening, before he flicks his gaze up to meet mine.

“Not anymore.”

He continues upward, footsteps echoing, that gaze locked unblinking on mine as he advances step by step until he stops on the one below me, eyes level with each other and our mouths only a heartbeat apart.

But he closes that distance quickly enough.

Mason's lips press against mine in lazy nibbles, slow kisses with gently scraping stubble and soft bumps of nose and even softer sighs of pleasure. His hands find their usual spot on my hips, thumbs hooked in my belt loops, long fingers curling over the curve of my ass, but not quite cupping. Not sliding down to grope or squeeze.

Maybe it's because my hands are busy cupping his face for once, now that I can easily reach.

His cheeks are warm beneath my touch, the edge of his jaw sharp in my palms, and sharper still at the back corners, where my fingers curl into him and find shifting purchase as his mouth moves against my own. I swipe my thumbs across his cheeks, through the scratch of hair and out over soft, smooth skin and the expanse of countless freckles I could easily see, if I were to open my eyes.

I do. Just to make sure they're still there.

And to enjoy the sight of them, dappled beneath those long, dark lashes.

At least, until his eyes snap open as well.

Our lips slow, coming to a still, then to a part, with a sticky kiss that echoes faintly around the stairwell too, but we don't move far. Our mouths continue to brush together, breath mingling, exhales fanning gently over swollen lips and flushed skin as we stare at each other. His eyes gleam with playfulness, grey depths warmed with amusement and want, softened with heavy lids and faint creases at the corners and…

…what I might call affection, from this vantage, now that I can easily see.

Heat floods my cheeks anew, and Mason pulls me forward by the hips and the loops until our chests bump together and then he's kissing me again. Deeper. More purposefully. _Affectionately_ , too, in a way I can't deny.

In a way that makes my eyes squeeze shut as well, and forces a whimper from my throat, and fills my chest with so much swelling fondness that I just… _ache_.

I never thought all those steps we climbed back then were leading here, to this exact instant, to this particular spot, to us pressed together and swaying in a familiar embrace. And I don't want to know what else lies ahead of us, how many more embraces we have, if any, or where we might be climbing to next.

I just want to take the steps one at a time. Day by day. Hour by hour.

Moment by moment.

A callout for his staring. A kiss in a stairwell. A consideration for the advantages of terrain and isolation.

I smile against his lips.

And then an unanswered question.

I slide my hands from his cheeks, down his neck, to his shoulders, where I gently, but firmly, nudge him down a step. Mason raises a brow, but doesn't resist. Doesn't keep hold of me either, arms dropping to his sides as he falls back another step until I can see the top of his head, the part in that dark hair I mostly know by touch.

The rest of those wavy locks brush against my hands as I slide up his neck again, and press my thumbs under his jaw to tilt his head back even further. Again, he doesn't resist. Only licks his lips and swallows, eyes darkening as I lean over him.

I wonder if there's anything new he can see of me now, from his vantage, in this moment, the instant before I plunge down to capture his lips with mine.

He receives me eagerly, mouth parting quickly for my tongue and my pace. I guide the kiss and Mason follows, through deep slides together into sharp inhales, breathy turns into lip sucking and parting drags of teeth that make him growl low with pleasure, slower stretches too, softer swirls, where it's just the wet heat and the taste of us and my moans and the silent, urgent need vibrating in his throat beneath my touch.

At some point, his hands come up to skim my legs, fingertips ghosting along the backs of my thighs, but he doesn't quite take hold of me. Doesn't grab or squeeze suggestively.

Maybe it's because he's too busy enjoying my hold on him, the press of my palms against the tendons gliding and shifting in his neck, the feel of my fingers stroking over his soft skin and the prickle of recently shaved stubble, the way I find myself lingering on his pulse, circling it as it throbs hard beneath my thumbs, as he tilts his head back further to give me even better access to him.

As he bares his throat to me entirely, willingly, and without hesitation.

When I pull away to breathe, he continues to follow, rising up on his toes before our lips part with another sticky, echoing kiss. He stays there for the briefest moment afterward, at apex where we stare at each other—and where an unexpected thrill jolts electrically through my body at the sight of him like that, arched up for me, with such eagerness and raw desire. His eyes darken even more as he feels it too, into near blackness, and his hands finally tighten on my thighs, right before he drops back to his heels and glances away.

I bite my lip.

After a moment, I straighten up again, hands sliding to his shoulders once more. “Gotta say, sunshine,” my voice echoes husky and low, “I _do_ like the view from up here.”

Mason scoffs and runs a hand through his hair, but the look in his eye remains.

“Don't get used to it, sweetheart.”

“Why not?” I tease my thumb across his lips, grinning. “You already spend most of your time beneath me.”

He snorts, cracking into a smile before he presses a wet kiss to my fingertip.

“Good point,” he replies, glancing up at me. Dark amusement glitters in his eyes now as he slides his hands to my hips again. “Can't say I don't enjoy the view from below too.”

I cup his cheeks and lean over to kiss him more, but right before we make contact, his grip tightens hard—

Mason smirks deeply.

—then he lifts me up suddenly instead.

“ _Shit!_ ”

The word echoes sharply through the stairwell as my feet shoot off the ground. I wobble and grab at his forearms instinctively, heartbeat spiking wildly for a moment, but my surprise passes quickly. Then I'm just left hanging in his grasp, legs dangling free, abs tensed for balance, hips slightly above his eye level, and all with that self-satisfied fucking smirk of his blasting up at me.

I know I should probably be at least mildly annoyed from the dick swinging, the reminder that, although I may _occasionally_ have him beat on height, he will _always_ have me beat on strength, but…

Honestly, I'm just fucking impressed.

And a little jealous.

I always am, whenever I witness it. Fucking ridiculous vampires.

He just front raised over fifty fucking kilos like it was nothing—and he's still holding it up, perfectly motionless, at this awkward fucking angle, arms completely straight, with no trembling strain or drooping or sign of fatigue or anything other than just a goddamn beautiful and totally fucking effortlessness display of raw strength.

It took me nearly a decade to even hit fifteen in each hand, and I'm still struggling to push on to twenty.

_Fuck_ , and the sheer mechanical load on his shoulders right now, I just—

I fold my arms and huff out a long breath that trails into a smirk.

“Well, I guess it's higher than I _thought_ you could go.”

The words barely leave my mouth before Mason swings me up directly overhead.

I gasp and tip forward, chest plunging, legs rising, until I'm parallel with the ground, stiffened and balanced, arms extended, with my heart thundering, my ankles tightly crossed, and my mind filled with a whole new appreciation for just how fucking deep those gymnastics instincts were drilled into me as a kid. His hands lock me in place too, grip firm, thumbs digging into my hips to keep me from rotating any further.

At least, for a moment.

He grins up at me, fangs sharp and visible, then slowly starts to tilt my pelvis so my legs go higher.

My braid falls first, unfurling like the damn rope at gym class, and I'm disappointed it doesn't swing directly into his smug face. My necklace falls next, pendant smacking into my mouth and catching between my lips. My shirt tries to fall too, sliding in stutters down my back, but the front tuck holds valiantly.

Blood begins to pool and throb in my face, and my hands come down to rest on his shoulders as well. He keeps rotating me, to the point where our foreheads almost touch and our eyes lock together at a different angle and our mouths are still less than a heartbeat apart.

The grin twitching at my lips matches the widening spread of his—and we come to a simultaneous decision quickly enough.

He leans back slightly and my legs soar even higher to my whoop of joy, until I'm practically vertical.

Until he can stare directly up the neck of my shirt, too.

And from the look in his eye, I can tell he's undoing the clasp on my bra to make my breasts spill free, right before he lowers me to put his face between them. Mason rolls his lips together and groans a low noise of appreciation.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment, shifting me slightly for a better view, “you look great from down here.”

I scoff around the chain on my lips and try to give him a look, but the tomato face and the grin probably ruin it a little—

My shirt falls over my head with a soft plop.

—And so does that.

Mason's bark of laughter echoes loudly throughout the stairwell.

So does mine, slightly more muffled.

I start wobbling a little, and he quickly lowers me over his shoulder before I lose my balance. His arms curl snugly around the back of my thighs, but it isn't long before I feel him staring at my ass again. And it only takes a fraction of the time after that before one of his hands shoots up to start squeezing firm, eager handfuls of me, paired with long, appreciative strokes, and a targeted pat that makes me clench and moan softly.

He starts to climb again while he enjoys himself.

I enjoy his touch too, if not the view. Of white and grey stripes. Because he didn't bother to fix my shirt, of course. Or give me the chance to do it myself. My arms and braid sway back and forth as his footsteps echo, and I huff at the loose strands of hair tickling my face.

A pleasantly undignified half-defeat. A demonstration of shared strength and acrobatics. A question answered beyond the scope.

I smile against the necklace.

And a hand sliding fast up my back too, groping toward my bra clasp.

Fumbling, I reach over to smack his ass first. “I'll give you a wedgie,” I threaten through the shirt.

His hand retreats to my waistband, to my belt loops, where he yanks up suddenly while I squeal and kick out.

“I'll just give you more of one back,” he replies simply, shrugging beneath me.

I smack his ass again, harder.

Mason only chuckles and squeezes me tighter, nuzzling his cheek against me before pressing a lingering kiss to my thigh. Then he resumes his groping as he continues upward, carrying me with a sly smirk and deliberate slowness.

One step at a time.


End file.
